20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,51
fear and fascination with this peripatetic shooting gallery had galvanized the country.
Who would be next?
Cable news, even the president, had weighed in on this spate of assassinations. “We’re a nation of laws,” the White House spokesman had said. “We deplore vigilantism. Innocent people will be killed, and they are all innocent—until proven guilty by a court of law.”
Cindy agreed in principle, and she still had a job to do.
She had to unlock this story.
She went to her doorway and called out to McGowan, who stood up and came over to her.
“Jeb, work on this morning’s Chicago victim. Who, what, when, where, and if you uncover a shiny new why, that would be great. Then, separately, build a timeline starting with Jennings. Next, the Barons. Roccio. Peavey. The three Texas victims. Today’s guy, too. Profile of each. We’ll update this timeline, keep running it as a sidebar—”
McGowan held up his phone.
“Chicago victim’s name is Patrick Mason.”
“Good. Follow up and I’ll reach out to Houston. See if the killers there had the same MO.”
McGowan smiled and did a pretty good imitation of Henry Tyler, saying, “Go get ’em.”
CHAPTER 66
CINDY WAS IN a fury when she sat back down at her desk.
Jeb mocking Henry. That snotty kid.
She opened the email from her anonymous source who’d tipped her to the war on drugs and given her today’s scoop. Drug dealer shot dead in Chicago.
Cindy had the feeling that this was another Zodiac or Son of Sam, other serial killers who’d buddied up to the press. This time it was serial killers, plural. But who were they, and why and how were the shooters and their intended victims chosen? She wanted to read the email again, this time looking for dropped breadcrumbs or any lead that she had missed.
He had written, “If you’re part of the problem and value your life, stop selling drugs now whatever it costs you. Destroy your product and get straight.
“Or spin the wheel. You’ll never know when your number comes up.”
Spin the wheel was an odd phrase. Was it his manner of speech? Was it something meaningful? She’d like to know.
That’s when it hit her.
Her source had written to her. And he had called her.
Her return call to the burner phone had failed, but she hadn’t written back to him.
She had to do that, and if she made a good enough pitch, maybe he’d write back. Maybe she could sell him on her being his press conduit to the world. She was known. The Chronicle had reach. Tyler was a friend and mentor. It was a good idea.
But before she fired off her return email, she wanted to think about it some more.
Cindy opened her blog and her mail, checked every feed in the US and abroad, noting how much coverage the sniper killings had drawn.
She also detected something else that surprised her. The public was cheering on the vigilantes. When she opened the comments section on her blog, that same unexpected element was present. Readers were thinking that the shooters who were picking off drug dealers were the good guys.
She left her office deep in thought, headed toward the coffee station. McGowan was outside his cubicle, standing with his back to her. He was chatting with a pretty, young intern.
He was talking about her.
“Cindy does a good yeoman’s job,” McGowan said. “She has ten years in grade here, so she knows what she’s doing, but she has no style. She’s not a writer’s writer, if you know what I mean.”
“A hack, you’re saying?” said the intern.
McGowan laughed. “Right word. Exactly.”
Cindy had to decide quickly.
Show McGowan that she’d overheard him? Or hold it back for a better, more pivotal time? She walked around him to the coffee station, poured herself a paper cup of hazelnut bold, feeling the back of her neck getting hot.
She heard McGowan calling out to her over the din of the newsroom. He was saying, “Cindy. Cindy, I want you to meet Robin Boyd. She just started working here as an intern. Her father works for—”
“Nice to meet you, Robin. McGowan. Get to work. I want those profiles, every one of them, before noon. Show me what kind of writer you are. Try not to let down the team.”
CHAPTER 67
CLAIRE’S ROOM WAS lined with flowers of all heights and colors, grouped on the windowsills, in a row along the chair rail across from her bed, and there were bunches of get-well cards woven into the slats of the window blinds.